


f in the chat for zenix

by theteal_unicorn



Series: Minecraft Diaries Rewritten [2]
Category: Aphmau's Minecraft Diaries, Minecraft (Video Game), aphmau - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Backstory, Dark Magic, Fantasy, Gen, Human Trafficking, Imprisonment, Injury Recovery, Magic, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Pain, Phoenix Drop, Recovery, This turned out a lot darker than I expected, Torture, Trauma, first few chapters are in the nether, i swear im not trying to make light of these issues tho, im better at writing reactions and responses ig, im just not good at staying serious sorry, im not good at writing torture or anything but torture happens, it's more dark than it is graphic ig, k I should stop now, original locations in ru'aun, rip zenix baby boy (at least for the first few chapters), the punctuation is a #choice so dont judge pls ok, this goes against canon but idgaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:29:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29770707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theteal_unicorn/pseuds/theteal_unicorn
Summary: It's a Zenix backstory. Yeah—It does break canon but I honestly don't care (tho this is canon to my main fic, Rise of Phoenix Drop Reimagined. You're welcome to go read it if you like this style) but you can enjoy this without knowing my fic. That being said, this is definitely more in line with mcd rather than mcd rebirth.Sorry not sorry?—Not all the chapters have violence, and the violence isn'tthatgraphic to begin with.Notes at the beginning of each chapter will indicate what warnings apply.
Series: Minecraft Diaries Rewritten [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019943
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So like. This is finished, as in, the whole story is here (tho I may add a chapter in the middle.) But it's shit. I mean it's fine but like,,, there's no theme, points are kinda thrown about. It's full content, but it isn't a _story._ You're still welcome to read it, but like... I'm going back and fixing it, so if it sucks it might be different in about a week. So like. Don't judge. Just know that.
> 
> Also, I'm not trying to redeem Zenix. Murder is not okay, people. Absorbing your coworkers is not okay—even though I'm sure we've all wanted to at one point or another. I just kinda wanted to write this for a fun time and to make a backstory for a character who's story had been directly retconned multiple times :|

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! VIOLENCE!! TORTURE!! admittedly, it's not very descriptive, and I tried to keep it vague, and I'm personally better at writing observations and reactions bUT REGARDLESS, THAT STUFF EXPLICITLY HAPPENS!! TW!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

Don’t misunderstand, Zenix hated the chamber. That pit of fire, torture, and _pain._ It was filed with _pain._ Endless, unceasing, incredible, _pain,_ screaming, blinding _pain._

Whips, spikes, stones, stretchers, any torture imaginable was available and _graciously_ offered. And Zenix was granted _only the finest_ they could provide. 

Chained or tied or just restrained to whatever was the device of choice of the day, his flesh was torn open again and again. His wounds were sliced open before they could even attempt to heal. His flesh felt raw all over, far too sensitive to touch. He screamed and cried and sobbed and wailed and pleaded and begged in the sessions. 

With everything so loud—too loud. Every sound amplified, to the slight _crank!_ of a machine or gear to the _clang!_ of mental on metal to the _crack!_ of a whip to breathing inside his head to heartbeats in his ears to _everything being all at once and too, too loud._ Zenix was in there for hours at a time, screaming in pain, sobbing to be set free, begging for it to stop. 

Who was he begging to? Certainly not the torturers. They all wore this full suit of armor with demented helmets—these masks—that looked like skulls. They had no face that Zenix could see, and in his mind that meant they had no emotion and therefore weren’t human. They couldn’t hear him. They couldn’t feel anything for him. They weren’t really… _real._

But that one face. That _one person_ who never wore a mask. 

See, the chamber had an elevated platform, like an altar at a church. There were chains and tables for the prisoners and tables and shelves of weapons and instruments.  
But on the floor was a group of people, simply watching him. Did they pity Zenix? Did they regret doing this? Zenix wouldn’t know, they had no face Zenix could see. 

Except for the one. His image was burned into Zenix’s mind—the way his black clothes and dark hair seemed to seep into the blood-red brick walls, only to be hit by the shock of his pale hands and face, with had a stretching, chaotic, sideways grin plastered there whenever Zenix was screaming or sobbing or begging. Which was quite frequent in Zenix’s session.  
He was always already there by the time Zenix was fastened to the restraints. He never participated, hardly moved from his position. He just watched, reacting to Zenix’s performance. Glee and delight at Zenix’s screams in pain, mock pity when Zenix sobbed, laughter when Zenix begged to him, and pride when Zenix was at his lowest, when he was so weak he could barely make a sound. 

So, if this one person took _so much joy_ in watching Zenix, then did all of them feel the same? Zenix assumed so; that one face was his only point of reference. 

In there, he wanted to get out, to be alone, to have quiet, to be _home and free._

And the guy on the ground would only smirk and smile back. Nothing could avert his attention, nothing made the man take his eyes off Zenix. He just _loved_ the show. 

How could a person even enjoy watching someone be tortured? What could drive a person into taking such delight in watching others’ pain? Zenix wouldn’t understand. 

Now, all that being said, as much as Zenix wanted to get out of a session, he knew his only other option wasn’t any better. If anything, being sent to his cell was worse. 

For starters, it was hot and stuffy and dark and the floor was caked with blood and dried fluid and smelled awful and Zenix couldn't go a moment in there without gagging and wanting to vomit. And he couldn't even try to sleep—he was always too sore to, in far too much pain. 

Being in there was a different kind of torture. A different kind of pain. 

See, in the chamber, all attention was on him, either from fastening the restraints to actually implementing the torture or by spectating; there were a few guards other than the unmasked man on the ground who simply watched.  
But in Zenix’s cell, he was completely alone, left with himself and his thoughts. Swimming around his head, ramming against the walls to be set free. He didn’t have anyone to express these thoughts to, so were these even real to begin with? 

Zenix wasn’t a person—He was far from one.  
Zenix didn’t have any memories, any personality. Hell, he didn’t have any emotions other than whispering and suffering. You could barely call those emotions. 

All he had was _pain._ He only ever felt _pain._ He only ever remembered _pain._ The only thing he ever saw, ever heard was _pain pain pain_

Sure, you could say the cell was 'outside the pain,' but was it? No, of course not. Surely, it was something much worse. Because he was left with himself, left with _the pain._ He could feel exactly where each instrument had touched him, the precise place where the whips had licked, where the chains bit and tore him open. The effects of the session seeped into his skin and his body and his soul, until the pain was pounding and drumming in his head and screaming out to no one in particular. The more time he was left with the pain, the more everything just hurt, and the louder everything got. Racing, pounding memories of pain. Echoing, smacking around his head. Drumming in his ears, burning. His breathing, his heartbeat, everything somehow amplified all over again and blocking out his ears. 

In the cell, he was far from alone. He had _the pain of everything there right next to him._

In the chamber he was trapped by restraints and ropes and chains. 

In the cell he was trapped by the pain 

In the chamber he was watched by all those monsters. 

In the cell he was watched by the pain 

In the chamber he was deafened by all the sounds. 

In the cell he was deafened by the pain 

What was worse, the cell or the chamber? What would he prefer, the lady or the tiger? No one would ever be able to answer those questions, certainly not Zenix when his mind was so clouded with pain. _Nothing but pain_

As much as Zenix fought and fought, struggling when he was moved between places, yelling out in his session, fighting to get out, to be alone, to have quiet, to be free, to go home, what were those things? They sure sounded nice, but did they exist? What was _out of that place,_ what was _alone,_ what was _quiet,_ what was _freedom,_ where was _home._ Was there anything outside of the pain? It was the only thing Zenix had ever known. _Was there such a thing as outside the pain_

Yes, Zenix wanted _out_ and _alone_ and _quiet_ and _home_ and _free_ but what did those words mean?  
Was there such a thing?  
When would they come? Would they be everything he thought? 

Or would it be just like the cell, trapped in his own thoughts, in the memories of what they did to him. 

Zenix wasn’t a person—he was far from one.  
Zenix didn’t have any memories, any _thing_ outside _the pain._ So, did anything exist outside of it? 

And that’s exactly where he started. Because Zenix quickly realized there was no use fighting any more. 

If he would always be trapped in the pain, then _out_ surely doesn’t exist.  
If he could never be _alone,_ no matter where, then what did he want?  
If he could never get _quiet,_ then how else would he find it?  
If he couldn’t remember _home,_ then was there ever such a thing?  
If _freedom_ isn’t real, then what was? Was anything ever going to get better?  
And if it wasn’t, then _what was he fighting for?_

_why keep fighting if there's nothing to fight for_

He gave up. There was no point, no purpose. 

Everything was already so deafening and blinding and overwhelming, it had reached such a pinnacle that Zenix found a place of quiet amid all the torture. He just… stopped processing. Stopped reacting. 

Everything was easier after that. Life still sucked ass, and it didn’t change anything, but Zenix had shut down and nothing mattered anymore. 

It was so loud that his hearing was blocked. It was so blinding that his eyes couldn't make a single thing out. He stopped being able to identify their instruments. He lost all sense of where the pain was coming from. He stopped screaming and sobbing and begging. His throat was so tight; it no longer functioned other than the occasional gasp or squeak or whimper that involuntarily slipped out of his lips. 

It was a weird quiet. It’s the eye of the storm, right? 

He knew the guy was unsatisfied, his expression turning bored and sour in Zenix’s sessions.  
He could feel the discomfort in his torturers. But it didn’t matter to him. 

He just wanted it to end. That’s what he wanted. 

Yeah, the torture sucked, but now it was becoming more of an inconvenience rather then pain. Because eventually all he wanted to do was let go. 

He pictured the image of a floating feather, free from the bird, floating down and down and down until it hit a stream. A calm, quiet stream, where the tiniest ripple happened when the feather made contact. And then the water enveloped the feather, pulling it down and down and down into the void of oblivion. 

Wouldn’t that be nice? If Zenix could close his eyes and melt into the ground, never to exist again. 

Zenix wanted that—to go to _that_ home. That’s the only home that he could imagine being worth it. 

So, would that mean Zenix should die? 

Which begged the question—how wasn’t Zenix dead? Surely, from all the torture, all the suffering, Zenix should be dead by now.   
And if Zenix wasn’t reacting the same as he used to, then why keep him around and alive? 

If there was no point in him being there anymore 

Why was he still there 

and why wasn’t he dead 

_how wasn’t he dead_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this, check out my main fic! It's part 1 of this series! More short stories and side stories to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real violence but gene is a sicko, and ppl talk very objectively about zenix. idk it just turned out this way

Another one of Zenix's sessions in the chamber had just finished, and two Shadow Knights dragged him back to his room—per usual. What wasn't usual was that Gene was following close behind. 

And then, instead of just throwing Zenix in, they propped him up against the wall so that he was seated and facing Gene. 

Not that Zenix could even see him, Gene observed. His eyes were unfocused, left staring straight ahead. 

His hopeless, unseeing eyes. The eyes of a broken Shadow Knight. 

Gene clicked his tongue. "My, my. This is underwhelming." 

Zenix was unresponsive as ever, but Gene did notice he was looking out—or, at least, _at_ —the door. Once they dropped off Zenix, the two other Shadow Knights had left the door wide open. Zenix clearly didn't have the strength or energy to even _try_ to escape, and even if he did, there was no way he would make it out of the castle. He wouldn't even make it passed Gene. 

"Hmph—the name's Gene. An _honor_ to finally meet you." 

His voice dripped with sarcasm on the last statement. Zenix didn't budge—didn't even seem to register his existence. 

"Honestly, it's such a pity. Such a _waste—"_ Gene continued, pacing around the small cell— "I expected more. I expected _power, fear,_ something, anything! After all the horror stories I've heard—" his head turned sharply to Zenix— "of course, you wouldn't remember any of that—but it looks like I got my hopes up for nothing. I at least expected you to last a _bit longer_ than you did. And you were my _favorite_ to watch before you broke; the high and mighty Zenix, defeated and brought to his knees, sobbing for mercy, _begging_ to be set free. And then you had to _spoil_ it— _far_ too soon. And while it's been _wonderful_ to have you in our care, you're useless to us now. A broken toy is no good. Besides, we need to free up the space for the new recruits—we've gotten _twenty_ in the past month—isn't that incredible? So we're gonna be handing you off. To who? I have no idea. But imagine the price we could get for you! A teenager who doesn't age, doesn't need to be fed, not responsive—which is a _big_ plus for some—and doesn't have _any_ family searching for them. Ugh! There's going to be people _fighting_ for you; we'll have _so many_ options. You're a highly coveted prize, to be sure! Not that we care about the money—we don't exactly need that. We're just glad to get rid of you. Just thought I'd give you a heads-up, if you even got any of that." 

Zenix hadn't reacted the entire time. Not visibly, at least. As far as Gene knew, Zenix didn't hear a word he said. _Fine by him._

With that, Gene spun on his heel and left the room. 

He came right back with the two previous knights. Gene watched as they pushed Zenix onto his stomach and forcefully pulled his arms behind his back and tied them together by the wrist. They used some more rope to tie his ankles together. Then, they yanked him up to put a blindfold over his eyes and a gag on his mouth. 

"Sweet dreams~" Gene taunted. 

—

So Zenix saw the guy—Gene, whatever—talking him, but he didn't hear a word he said other than his name. It didn't matter, though. Once they tied him up—which was unusual—Zenix had been coming in-and-out of consciousness. He was aware he was being dragged across the floor, but he had no idea where he was going. And it's not like Zenix had any sense of time anymore, but he did observe that they were taking _far_ too long for them to be heading to the chamber. Or were they fooling him? It didn't matter. Zenix didn't care anymore. 

But then he heard distant chattering. Then there was noise again— _so much noise, too much noise,_ all muddling together in a low drone that was surely going to break Zenix's head open. 

He was picked up and thrown in... something. It was a small box—he could feel wooden walls on either side of him—and then he heard a door close overhead him. Like the lid of a coffin being shut. 

He just laid in the quiet, pitch blacknesses for a few minutes. 

Was he dead? Was this his end? Would they keep him here until he died of starvation or dehydration or exhaustion or suffocation? 

But he was tired. He was _exhausted._ He didn't ponder his situation for very long before knocking out. 

—

Well, Gene loved field work. 

They were heading to the far southwestern side of Ru'aun. It was a hot-spot for bandits, and on that day there were holding an auction. You could find anything there, you could buy the dirtiest goods as long as you had the money. 

In Gene's case, they would be _making_ money. 

Gene glanced back at the carriage that his horse was pulling. He knew there were two Knights in there guarding Zenix (not like he could escape, of course.) They were more concerned someone _else_ was going to stop them then _Zenix_ doing anything. He was probably passed out, and he was far too wounded and dehydrated and weak and in pain to even _try_ anything. 

It wasn't the Scared Forest, but it was still overgrown and _far_ too easy to get lost in. You couldn't even find the place unless you had been to the forest often enough. 

And Gene had been there plenty of times.

It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place.  
No, really—there was a hole in the side of the hill. Very easy to miss. 

Gene slid off his horse and found the entrance. 

There was a huge, open tunnel that stretched into blackness. A huge guy was leaning against a wall, but straightened as Gene got there. 

"What do we have here?" The guy cracked his neck. 

"Far from honor, far from grace. I'm sure this is the right place." 

It rolled off Gene's lips. Granted, it was a dumb password. Plain. Boring. But Gene didn't know who came up with it. 

The guy grunted and leaned back on the wall. "They're changing it soon. Be sure to get the new one." 

"'Preciate it." 

He, the horse, and the carriage behind them continued down the tunnel. 

Eventually, when it was so dark that the average eye could barely see, Gene reached over to the wall on his right and brushed his hand against it in a pattern. 

The wall opened up, and there was a dim light and a hum of distant chatter. 

Gene and the carriage turned in. 

_Have to say,_ Gene thought, _gotta love witchcraft._

The tunnel turned into a huge, open cave. People were lounging around, sitting at tables and chatting. 

There was a side cave that was smaller. Gene stopped there first to drop off the horse and carriage, where the two knights in there stepped out and stretched. The three of them were wearing casual clothing; they didn't need people knowing who they were. Not that anyone would be asking; privacy was respected in that place. Gene saw workers tending to other horses, donkeys, goats, and whatnot, and people pulled the carriages over to another room. 

A guy—the clear head of the stable-area—approached Gene. "Any goods on the carriage?" 

"Yeah. In a compartment on the bottom." 

"Alright." He turned around to the shelf behind him. There was a short, fat roll of yellowing paper, and he ripped off the end and handed the piece to Gene, who took it. 

It was a ticket that fit right in Gene's palm. _'126124.'_ His number for the day. 

He grunted to him in thanks, and Gene and his two knights headed out the side cave and into the main area, where they crossed to the back wall. 

There was a bar. The three took a seat there, and almost immediately a bartender came to them. 

"Here for the auction?"

"Yeah," Gene answered. "Selling." And he slid the ticket to the bartender. 

He took it, turned around, poured a drink, grabbed a piece of paper, a bottle of ink, a quill, and handed them all to Gene one-by-one. 

"Done this before?" 

"Oh yeah."

It wasn't a long form. It had Gene's number at the top—126124—a space to briefly describe the good you were selling, and the starting price. 

As he filled it out, the bartender got some drinks for the other two knights. 

Gene wrote in, 'Teenage boy. Seventeen years old. Doesn't age. Doesn't need to be fed. Not very responsive at the moment, but is strong and can be trained to follow instructions. Doesn't have a family looking.' For starting price, he put 5,000 pieces.

When he finished, he waved down the bartender, who took the paper back and gave it a quick glance-over. 

He whistled. "You have quite the goods on your hands. Trust me, you're going to get a _lot_ more than 5,000 pieces. You gonna be attending the auction?" 

"Not today. My buddies and I have some prior matters to attend to. We'll be leaving and coming back in the evening to collect. You can keep the goods. We don't need to know the buyer as long as we receive the full price of the highest bidder." 

"Perfect. Then we'll see you in the evening. Have a nice day, gentlemen." 

"Thanks. To you as well."

The three paid for their drinks and left. 

Yup, this was a perfect deal. Zenix would end up in a _loving_ home where people would _care deeply_ and _always_ for him. He was valuable, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing bad happens except for a description of Zenix's wounds.

The day was fine. Everything was normal. Garroth was on patrol watching the perimeter, watching for travelers, just minding his business and keeping an eye out. 

There weren't many travelers that day. 

Until there was the caravan. 

Right before dusk, Garroth saw the a group of five rowdy guys, clearly drunk from how loud they were. They had a horse pulling a carriage, and they were _so loud._

Garroth didn't like dealing with drunks. He was hoping to pretend he never saw them. 

But then they got closer. 

_Perfect._

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." 

"Eyyyyyyy~" they all sort of chorused, drunken and lazily. One—the clear head—spoke up, slurring in his speech. "We're going to... Bright Port. Do you know where we can get a bed 'round here for the night?"

"We do have some spare rooms, as long as you allow me a quick check of your goods?" 

"Gooooo ahead. We got nothin' to hide. And nothing you can find, HA!"

Everyone started laughing, and Garroth sighed.

_What's that supposed to mean?_

As someone pulled open the back door, Garroth stepped inside.

It was empty, save for a few crates around the sides, a carpet that covered almost the whole floor, and a guy. While all the others were well into their middle ages, he was comparably quite young. In his thirties, maybe? Clearly unamused, he was lounging on a couple crates. 

"Pardon me while I check the carriage." 

"Great." He got up, looking bored and exhausted. As he passed Garroth to leave the carriage, he muttered to Garroth. "They're drunk off their asses. They don't know the difference between a room and a cell. Say you found nothing, and _put them in a cell._ There's something... in a compartment on the bottom. Something I don't approve of, and I don't imagine you will. I'll be taking my leave." 

He straightened and hopped out the carriage like nothing happened. 

Confused, Garroth glanced around regardless. He didn't see anything. 

But there was a carpet on the floor. 

He lifted it slightly, just a peak. 

And he saw the hinges of a door. 

_Dear Irene._

He got out and came back to face the rest of them, noticing the younger man was gone.  
"Gentlemen, if you'll follow me, I'll show you to a room." 

They all gave a little whoop or holler, or just a sound of satisfaction and approval. 

They followed Garroth into town, and quickly a farmer came up to them. 

"Sir Garroth! Should I—" she gestured to the carriage. 

"Lady Lydia, I—Actually," Garroth said, "go ahead and hold onto it. Keep it here. I'll be right back." 

"Oh. Okay." 

Garroth continued with the group straight into the guard tower. Dale was seated at the desk by the entrance, but got up when Garroth walked in. 

"Sir! I—huh, what—" 

"Sir Dale—" Garroth said, "Please take the gentlemen to the... uh... _rooms_ that we have available." 

"What—Oh, OH! YES! Gentlemen! Please, follow me." 

Dale led the group around the corner, where there was a small row of cells. 

Garroth huffed to himself, then went back out to see the farmer, who was petting and whispering sweet nothings to the horse. 

She turned when she noticed Garroth. "Sir?" 

"Allow me a quick moment to check the back." 

"Of course." 

Garroth again pulled open the back door and stepped inside. He pulled up the entire rug and threw it to the side. 

There was a very visible, very large trap door. 

As Garroth crouched down and pulled on the handle, it opened quite easily, revealing a long wooden box. About six feet long, maybe two and a half feet across? And three feet deep? 

Garroth repositioned himself to have better grounding. He pulled open the box and drew in a gasp through his teeth. 

It was a kid—in his early teens—lying on his side. The only clothes he had were a small pair of shorts and a skimpy, thin undershirt. Clearly he hadn't eaten anything in ages; his skin seemed to just barely cover and sit around his skeleton. _He was just skin and bone._ Bloody cuts and stretching scares and deep, dark bruises were littered everywhere—along his back, everywhere along and around his legs, as far as Garroth could see, and a few on his face. Garroth also saw a small, dried pool of blood underneath the boy. His mop of dark hair was matted and caked with blood and covering his eyes. To top it all off, there was a gag of cloth on his mouth, and his hands and feet were bound in rope. Not that they were needed; the kid was far too weak and tired and wounded—by the look of it—to put any _effort_ into an escape. 

"By the six..." Garroth muttered. He checked the kid's pulse—faint, but there. He wanted to undo the bindings, but he was afraid moving anything would make him bleed out even more.   
He stood up and peeked out the carriage. "Lady Lydia? Could you go get the stretcher and another guard from the top floor? There's a young boy here that requires our aid."


	4. Chapter 4

_There were... so many things. So much... light... too much... everything..._

Zenix had been coming in and out of consciousness for days. He was vaguely aware of something... soft below him. Nothing like the cold, harsh ground of his cell. And everything... didn't hurt as much. His wounds... they were definitely still there, but they didn't scream so much. They didn't burn. At least, not as much. 

His face felt hot, his ears were still ringing, his vision was still dead, but it wasn't horrible. 

Everything was warm and bright, but not the way it was in the chamber. The chamber was hot and stifling and blinding. But here it was... kind. Cozy. Calming. The light was... warm and soft compared to the harsh, stinging yellow and white light in the chamber. And there was something soft and cool on his forehead. It felt so nice...

And the smell— _oh, the smell._ Everything was so sweet, like roses or wildflowers. And it was also like... warm, fresh vanilla mixed with some kind of citrus something. 

People kept... talking to him? In hushed tones, softly, slowly. And he wanted to respond. He tried so hard to listen. But it was so soft, so warm, so easy... to just... let go...

Sometimes, they lifted his head to have him drink something. Sometimes it was cool and refreshing, sometimes it was warm and sweet and like... citrus or whatever. 

And then, all at once, he was awake. His eyes gently flipped open. 

He tried to sit up, but it hurt too much. He tried to look around, but it was _too much_ to move his head. 

He did manage to glance around though, and he was more aware of his surroundings. 

Most notably, his headache was gone. His ears weren't ringing so much. His face wasn't so hot. 

He was lying on a bed—or at least, some kind of cushioning. That soft, cool thing on his forehead? He figured it was a towel soaked in cool water. 

There was a tall table or drawer or something at the feet of his bed. On top, there was something bright—oh, a candle. And a green bowl and a wooden box. 

To his left, it was just an empty room. He could sit up slightly and saw two seats. That was probably where the people who talked to him sat. 

The walls were pretty barren—just wooden—but Zenix didn't mind. He liked the simplicity. 

He just kinda laid there, too weak and sore to move but not tired enough to go back to sleep. 

It was fine, though. It was a nice room. Pretty. 

And quiet. The quiet was nice.

—

Garroth was done with patrol and heading up the stairs of the guard quarters. He just wanted to check on the kid, see if he was awake. 

The Lord of Bright Port said he wouldn't be for another few days, maybe not even for another week. Maybe he wouldn't wake at all.  
Then again, the lord had said the kid shouldn't have been alive at all. But the kid never stopped breathing, never stopped _living._ He was still alive, which meant the kid _could_ wake up. 

But Garroth didn't have his hopes up. Every time he peeked in the room, the kid was fast asleep. Completely passed out. Unconscious as ever. 

Garroth reached the top floor with the door wide open, as usual. It was left that way for people to go in and out. 

He glanced inside, nothing—

The kid was seated upright. Wide awake. 

"Uh—Ah," Garroth said, "Look who's awake." 

Garroth kept his calm, but he was _elated_ that the kid was awake. 

"Uh—ex-excuse me—" the kid seemed to have a bit of trouble talking, but he got better with every word. "Can you—Can you tell me where I am?" 

"You're in Phoenix Drop." Garroth took a seat next to the bed. "A town in the Ru'aun region. My town. I'm the head guard here—Sir Garroth. Does that—does that all make sense?" 

"Um... yeah. I think... I think I remember what that—those are." 

Garroth nodded. "Do you remember you're name?" 

The lord of Bright Port had said the boy suffered a concussion and may not remember anything at all. 

"Zenix. My..." 

"Your name is Zenix?" 

The boy nodded. 

"Well, _Zenix._ Welcome to Phoenix Drop." 

"...Thanks." 

He knew probing would be inappropriate, he couldn't ask too many questions to quickly—and clearly the kid had a rough life; asking the wrong question could go horribly wrong—but he did _really_ want to know about the kid. He wanted to help him—he wanted to take care of him. 

"Do you—Do you remember where you're from?" 

Zenix paused, then shook his head. 

"Okay—that's okay! It's alright. Do you remember anything else? Anything at all." 

Zenix's chin jutted out very slightly, like he was about to talk. But then he shook his head. "No, I don't—I don't remember anything. I can only remember this place—but everything was, like, hazy—but I don't—there's nothing before that." 

"Well, that's fine. In all honestly, I don't like to remember my past either. I'm not actually from Phoenix Drop, but my real life began here. I know my situation is... _far_ different from yours, but I believe _you can_ start a new life here. I did when I was a little older than you. And, if you don't want to, we don't have to talk about anything that came before today—is that alright?" 

Zenix nodded his head. "T... thanks." 

Garroth nodded as well. "Can I get you anything? Food, water?"

"Um... I'm a little hungry—" 

"Alright. No disrespect, but do you think you can eat on your own?" 

Zenix nodded eagerly and readjusted his seat. Garroth winced that the kid's legs and torso were still covered in bandages—his wounds still recovering—but Zenix didn't seem to mind. He seemed perfectly fine, in fact. 

"Alright." Garroth stood up. "I'll go grab something downstairs—be right back."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter _really_ lines up with my main fic. Again, you don't necessarily need to go read it, but if something seems different to how you remember it in the series, that's why.

_skip to mcd season 1_

He couldn't describe it. 

There was just something so... _alluring_ about her. 

Not in a romantic way. Not in a lust or sex one, either. Zenix just _wanted her._

And he didn't know what that meant. He couldn't figure out how he felt about her. 

He was increasingly excited the longer she stayed in the village, the more she helped.  
_It didn't make sense._

He just kept pushing it on Garroth, _'Everything is going to work out if she becomes lord. People are going to take us more seriously, and villages will actually be willing to trade with us. Forget about Malik—he's dead, there's nothing we can do about it. But her? She's here now. All of our problems disappear if she just becomes lord.'_

He couldn't understand why he wanted her as lord so badly.  
_Why did he want a lord so badly_

He freaked out when she left for that afternoon. When Garroth sent her to Lord Malik's house.  
Yeah, he had a right to be worried, but he didn't know _why_ he was _so_ worried. 

He accidentally called her 'lord' that one time. It had just slipped out _so easily,_ so naturally.  
_Why did he wanted her to be lord so badly_

Things happened. Time moved on. She actually claimed herself as lord. 

Zenix and Brendan were taking down the old lord's house. 

It was fine. Everything was fine. Everything was normal. 

But he heard it. 

No, no, no. That's a lie. He didn't hear it. He _felt_ it. 

A shift in the air, a change in the direction of the wind. There was no way to explain it. It was all at once _so incredible familiar_ and he couldn't remember _ever_ feeling that way. 

He turned to look behind him. 

It was— 

Time slowed, coming to a stop. 

_A Shadow Knight._

Cloaked in all green, dressed like a bandit. 

He knew that feeling—it was all too familiar— _that_ was a Shadow Knight. 

He couldn't think of what to do. All he knew was an arrow was coming towards him, and he couldn't stop it. He didn't have the time to dodge. 

He grabbed Brendan's arm and pulled him in front. 

It landed right in Brendan's side. 

Zenix yelled. He had no reason to—the arrow didn't even hit him. 

But his adrenaline was pounding, he could feel his heart drumming in his ears. 

_Oh my Irene, Oh my Irene, Oh my Irene._

Brendan was shot. There was a Shadow Knight. 

_He was alone in a forest with a Shadow Knight._

"COME ON OUT, COWARD!" Zenix called, drawing his sword. 

He didn't want revenge for Brendan. 

He wanted revenge for what they _did._

He ran over to where the knight was. 

But he was gone. 

Zenix was so rilled up, he didn't even realize that the knight's presence vanished. He knew; he could feel where the Shadow Knight had been, and he simply wasn't there anymore. 

He'll find the son of a bitch later. Brendan was the only thing that mattered right then. 

—

Waiting for Aphmau to come back with the herb, Zenix was freaking out. 

_There was a Shadow Knight. Zenix was right next to a Shadow Knight._

_They were probably camping there, that's why he tried to shoot Zenix, because he was on their property._

But it still didn't make sense. Why— 

And then Aphmau came back.

—

He was telling Aphmau what had happened, minus the fact the bandit was a Shadow Knight. The conversation was honestly a blur. 

But Garroth did tell say that he wanted the two of them to investigate the area to see if the culprits returned. He couldn't tell how he felt at the idea. 

And then Aphmau said the words 

_Phoenix Drop_

The last lord—wait— _lords._

He couldn't tell why, just everything suddenly clicked. Like a gear that had shaken out of place was _finally_ shaken back to where it belonged. And everything started working again. 

He didn't have his memories back—nothing like that—but there was _something_ in his head that suddenly fit together. Something _worked._

He couldn't handle it. His head was spinning. There was— 

He excuse himself and headed to his room. 

_Shadow Knights. Lords. Guards._

He talked to Aphmau a bit, but again, it was all such a blur. 

He needed a way. He needed to find that knight. 

_He needed to know more_


	6. Chapter 6

Zenix jumped at the chance when Garroth said it was time for them to check out the area. 

He had been practicing archery all week. He was ready for this moment. 

They headed into the woods. 

They were taking too long, and Zenix wanted to get there as fast as possible.  
He—unknowingly—sped up his pace.  
Then he was running. 

"Whoa, someone's excited," Garroth joked. 

"Um, yeah. Just wanna..." He slowed down. 

"Is something wrong?" 

"No! No, nothing's wrong—this is perfect—this is fine—this is perfectly fine—I just want to find the guy who did it." 

Garroth sighed. "Alright. But don't get your hopes up. He may not be here." 

"Yeah, right." 

They _finally_ arrived. 

_Okay, okay, here goes—_

"Are you sure you're alright?" Garroth asked. "You seem on edge." 

"Yeah. No—yeah, I'm fine. I just—" 

He went to the back and looked around. No one was there. 

It was fine—it was fine. Zenix just had to wait. 

He had to wait for night fall.

—

The sky was dark. They were supposed to be done for the night. 

"Alright," Garroth said, "I think that's it for the night." 

"Yeah. That's it." 

In quick succession, Zenix fired two arrows, one right after the other. One missed, but the other landed in Garroth's left side—right in the opening in his armor.  
_Bullseye._

Wow. Zenix had _really improved_ in archery recently. 

"Gah!" Garroth fell to the ground, holding his side. 

Zenix marched up to him, fire in his eyes. _Irene,_ it felt good. When was the last time he got to hurt someone like that? That too familiar adrenaline _rush_ of seeing people in pain, _Irene, it felt good._

Especially to see Garroth—the high and mighty Garroth, _defeated and brought to his knees._

"Zenix—wha—" Garroth in question was seated, with his left arm on the ground supporting him and his right holding the wound in his side. But Zenix pulled his hand away and pulled the arrow out.  
"GAW!" Garroth yelled out in pain, and his left arm dropped to his forearm—he was _barely_ seated upright. 

_Oh,_ did it feel good to see Garroth in pain. 

"We're too deep into the forest for anyone to hear you, _Sir,"_ Zenix muttered to him. "Let's just hope your _girlfriend_ cares about you enough to check on you. Oh wait—you insisted on her staying away from here." 

"You... you shot Brendan?" 

Zenix snorted. "Nope. Someone else did. Someone that I'm _counting on_ to show himself. But for now, I have to go." 

"Zenix... this isn't like you!" 

Zenix stared blankly at him, then burst out in laughter. "Oh my Irene, _this_ isn't like me? Oh, of _course_ not—this isn't the broken little boy you found that day. The person you conditioned and created to think just like you. No, no, that was never _me._ This? Now _this_ is what I am. _This_ is who _Zenix_ is. In fact, you've only gotten a _taste._ The things I've done, the goals I have, the things I want to do to? You couldn't comprehend. You'd _refuse_ to comprehend that this is what _your precious little Zenix_ really is. You'll never believe it, you'll _refuse_ to until the day you _die._ Which, by the look that wound, seems to be much sooner rather than later. Ah, one more thing." 

He pulled off the helmet to see shocked—and almost fearful—blue eyes stare back at him. And was that... betrayal? Oh, _adorable._

Zenix used the hilt of his sword to smack Garroth on the back of his head, dropping Garroth to the ground, losing the last bit of support he had on his left arm. 

Zenix was courteous enough to put his helmet back on. If he was going to take Garroth's dignity for being taken down by a teenager—or, what he _thought_ was a teenager—he was at least going to spare his pride of identity. I know, Zenix is _such_ a great guy. 

Zenix went off into the forest and walked west, the direction the sun had just sunk into. Aphmau would come later—oh, _he was coming back for Aphmau._ But for now, there was something _far_ more important he needed to do first.  
He was going to march right to the place in the mountain and was _going_ to find Gene. They would know him. They had to. 

Because Zenix was determined to find that fucker. 

_And he was going to give him pain._

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this, check out my main fic! It's part 1 of this series! More short stories and side stories to come.


End file.
